Unforgotten
by Lyra Belacqua the Silvertongue
Summary: Seventy three Victors before Katniss and Peeta. Seventy three tainted children. Seventy three who need their stories told. Rebels, loyals, killers, innocents. All with one thing in common: they are unforgotten.
1. The Rebel: Not the Capitol's Pawns

_'He'll see by his grave  
On the stone that remains  
Carved next to his name  
His epitaph plain:  
Only a pawn in their game.'_

* * *

The First Hunger Games

Phoenix Margaret Caverly, Age Seventeen, District One

* * *

The three hovercrafts lower me and twenty three other children down in a perfectly formed ring. I fall three feet to land, feet braced for impact, on a dirt circle in the middle of a small grassy field. The green waves end at a high stone wall perhaps fifty feet from our ring.

I notice this as my eyes dart about, looking for an escape. Escape was what I was so good at in the Rebellion, since that skill should be second nature to an elite spy. But the thing I most want to find is not an escape route through the seemingly impervious walls, guarded as I am by the lingering hovercraft.

I need to find my district partner. Simon Hathaway Caverly.

My _little brother._

I spot him six dirt circles to my left. He is flanked by the large boy from District Two, Travers Call, and the painfully scrawny twelve year old from District Five, Annabelle Harper. It's like a comical sideshow or child's movie: The big one, the skinny one, and the short one! Simon has always been diminutive for his age, and at thirteen looks closer to eleven.

His eyes are wide with fear, and it takes him another few moments to find me. He gestures frantically with his hands, mouthing _what do we do?_

I don't know, for once. No more supremely confident, beautiful, paragon-of-virtue, high ranking Agent Caverly. I never thought this could happen, any of this. I didn't think twenty four rebel kids would be kidnapped to fight to the death. Twenty three dead in minutes.

But there is something I can do.

We're all _rebel_ kids, right? Let's show the Capitol how far we're really willing to go as rebels.

When the hologram countdown in the middle of our ring reaches forty seconds left, I whistle shrilly twice. The signal means, 'Soldiers alert and prepare for next signal.'

Twenty three pairs of eyes lock onto me.

Being careful not to overbalance and step off my circle, which we were warned means death by shooting, I wave my arms in a circle over my head (meaning I'm going to take temporary control), closely following the motion with four alternating long and short whistles. After that, I drop my hands suddenly to my sides, and bow my head.

I've just told twenty three kids ready to fight for their lives to stay calm and do nothing. If someone else, Simon for instance, had tried this, they wouldn't have followed his orders. But I was high ranking in counterintelligence. I was a skilled agent. They should follow me.

One by one, beginning with Simon, the kids drop their ready stance and stand flat-footed on their circles. As the countdown reaches twenty seconds, Travers Call abandons his running pose and stands at peace. He is the final one. I couldn't be prouder of my rebels.

When the countdown ends and a gong rings, nobody moves. Nobody kills or fights or dies. Everybody stands still and calm, in the only form of defiance we have left. We are _not_ the Capitol's pawns. We will _not_ give in to them.

The pilot of the largest hovercraft buzzes out a warning over the loudspeaker. "Rebels. You are to follow orders and fight."

Nobody responds.

He repeats, louder, more insistent. "Follow orders and attack, or you will be punished."

That's a laugh. If we kill each other, only one out of twenty four will live. What punishment could they give that's worse than that?

"This is your final warning. Severe consequences will follow if you do not comply."

The District Twelve boy, Neville Sangrine, presses the three middle fingers of his left hand to his mouth, then holds them out. His district partner, Isadora Tamber, quickly repeats the gesture. I remember what it means. It's a District Twelve gesture. It symbolizes thanks, a goodbye to someone you love.

For us now, it symbolizes everyone we have lost. Thanks to the rebel soldiers for saving lives at the cost of their own. Goodbye to those we love, those we lost. My parents. My and _Simon's_ parents. Our Mother and Father. We salute you.

I repeat the gesture, and like a wave, the children around me follow. We are saluting our fallen soldiers. We are saluting families lost. We are saluting the people we love.

The hovercraft pilot does not agree.

He shines a spotlight in Simon's face, and the spell is broken.

"Simon Hathaway Caverly," the pilot growls. "Do you want to die?"

I am frozen on the spot. What do I do? My brother is _not_ going to die.

"I am not going to die," Simon says, but his voice sounds tiny and frail next to the amplified snarl of the Capitol soldier.

"Kill your sister."

"What? No!"

"Kill your sister or die."

"Simon, Simon, it's okay! I won't let them kill you! Simon, baby, don't make them angry." I lift my chin and address the hovercraft, willing my voice to be steady. "If you want to kill someone, kill me. Simon didn't do anything. Take me instead. He doesn't deserve it." Is this it? Am I going to die now, after everything?

Better me than Simon.

The pilot ignores me. "This is your final warning, Simon Caverly. Kill your sister."

"I won't!" He stomps his foot, as childish at thirteen as he was as a toddler. "I'm not gonna kill Phoenix."

"Then die."

I see terror reflected in Simon's gray eyes, terror that must surely reflect in mine. My paralysis breaks, and I'm running to him, calling for him, running past five other people that don't matter, _can't_ matter as much as my baby brother.

He reaches out his arms to me. "Help me!" he cries.

A heartbeat later, his blood is staining my face.

A piece of Simon hits the grass with a wet thunk.

I fall with it, my mind unable to comprehend what just happened, because this is impossible, he can't have just died, Simon isn't dead. No, Simon wasn't just exploded by Capitol guns. Simon is alive. He didn't die.

I touch my face, and warm, sticky red blood comes off on my fingers. But it's not just there. It's everywhere. It's in my hair, my clothes, my skin.

"S-Simon?" I call out, panicked. "Simon, where'd you go? Simon? SIMON?"

The world bends around me. Everything's red. No, everything's bloody. It's Simon's blood. He's everywhere. He's everywhere.

I hear screaming. It's me. No, it's the other rebel kids. It's everyone. We're screaming. They're afraid. I'm not, no, not afraid, I'm not afraid! I'm a rebel agent. When Simon gets back here, we'll stop them screaming!

I stumble up to the squealing District Five girl who was standing next to Simon. Annabelle Harper. Twelve, a year younger than he was- _is_. She's covered in red.

"Have you seen Simon?" I ask her. I grab her shoulders and shake her, because she's not answering, but she must have seen, he was next to her.

"Where's Simon? Anna, Anna, Annabelle. Belle. Where's Simon? Have you seen him?" I shake her harder. She's shaking her head _no, no, no, please get off me please get off help me help me._ "WHERE IS HE?"

"He's dead!" she squeaks.

"NO HE'S NOT!" I slap her, and she falls off her circle, landing in a huddled heap on the ground. "Where's Simon? TELL ME!"

The other rebel kids are stepping away from me, the crazy girl, the bloody girl, they're running away. But I don't care, I don't care, I need to find Simon!

"Where's Simon?"

"I dunno!" She starts to cry.

I scream, pure, thoughtless rage and grief, because I can't _find_ him, I can't find _Simon!_

I have to do something, I have to punish Annabelle Harper, because she won't tell me where Simon is. I need to find him.

There's a clump of thick grass by my foot, and I don't know what I'm thinking, if I'm thinking at all, why I'm doing it, but Annabelle should know where Simon is, and somehow the grass is in my hand, around her neck, and people are screaming and I think I am too. She's just choking. She should. She won't tell me where Simon is. Where's Simon? Where is he? "_Where is Simon_?" I shout. Annabelle slides to the ground, face purple. Did I just kill her? No. No, I didn't kill a twelve year old. I didn't. She's okay. Like Simon. Simon's okay. He's somewhere.

I stagger after the District Twelve boy, Neville Sangrine, the one who started the salute. "Where's Simon? Have you seen him?" I call. He only whimpers and backs away. Do I look like a monster? Do I scare him? Is it because I'm covered in blood? No, no, there is no blood, it's just red, because Simon wasn't shot and he's _not dead _and his blood is _not on me_.

"_Tell me _where Simon is _now_!" I shriek. Neville falls over. "I swear I don't know! Please, please, please, I don't know! I don't have him! Don't kill me! I don't know where Simon is!" He's sobbing and crawling back in the dirt. He's a disgusting worm. "Please don't kill me. I didn't see!"

"You liar. You saw. Everyone saw, and nobody's telling me! _I need Simon back_!"

It takes longer to make him fall over like Annabelle. His face turns pretty purple and blue and red, and he makes horrible choking noises. I don't care if he's hurt. I don't care. I need to find Simon.

I take another stalk, because the first one broke, and I go to find Simon.

I ask Isadora Tamber, and she doesn't know. So I choke her, because she doesn't matter, and I've gotta find him. I have to. I have to find him.

I ask Travers Call. No more Travers Call. Even though he breaks my nose, and more pretty red flows onto my shirt, I don't care. I don't feel it, anyway. I have to find Simon.

By now, other tributes are fighting, screaming in the panic I've caused. I'm only looking for my brother, but now everyone's dying because they're scared. Except Simon. He isn't dead. He isn't. When I find him, he'll help me stop the panic! He can fix this.

I ask Lysander Brigate from District Four, and Lola Teik from District Seven. They don't know. How does nobody know? Why won't anybody tell me where Simon is? I punish them. I have to! If nobody tells me, I make them choke, because that's how it works until I find Simon.

There's only one person left to ask. He's covered in pretty red, because he killed five other kids, but he's scared of me.

"Excuse me, have you seen my brother?" I ask, staggering through the bodies to Cosmo Forge of District Six. "I can't find him. Have you seen Simon Hathaway Caverly? I can't, I can't. I can't find him. Do you know? Have you seen where he went?"

"Stay away from me!" he yells. When he turns to run, he slips on the arm of his dead district partner and falls into the surrounding wall.

"I can't find. I can't, can't find him, I can't find my brother Simon. Have you seen him? Red hair, gray eyes, small. You can't miss him."

Cosmo shakes his head dizzily. "He- he's dead. I can't help you. He's gone. Simon is dead!"

"Simon is dead?" I whisper.

"He's dead. Leave me alone!"

Simon is dead?

No. No, no he's not, he's not dead. I wouldn't have made so many kids die if Simon weren't lost. I wouldn't, would I? No! I'm high ranking Agent Caverly, a spy. I'm confident and beautiful. I'm a brave rebel. I would never kill. I wouldn't kill people like that. No. No, no, no, no, no, _no!_

"_Aaaaahhhh!_" I launch myself at Cosmo's quivering form. He doesn't have time to scream before the noose is wrapped around his neck. It only takes a minute for him to die. Because one more doesn't matter. _One more_ doesn't matter if _Simon is dead!_

A glowing ladder from the sky descends for me.

* * *

I think I'm still screaming.

Hi, District One, miss me? Do you even recognize me? I'm not Agent Caverly. I'm not a rebel. Ahahahaha! I'm not a rebel anymore! Don't be stupid.

I'm Phoenix Margaret Caverly, the Victor of the First Hunger Games.

Where's Simon? Have you seen him?


	2. The Outcast: Last Night Alive

_'Stand up for true love_

_We'll never give up_

_Live like it's our last night alive.'_

* * *

The Second Hunger Games

Kodiak "Kodi" Tremaine, Age Eighteen, District Two

* * *

Everything has changed.

It's not the actual Hunger Games have changed from last year. Twenty four rebel kids are still going to be dropped from a hovercraft into an unknown area to have our death fight. But last year, the first time, everyone was uncertain of where they stood and how much they could get away with. They stood at peace, until Simon Caverly was shot and his sister lost it. Now, everyone knows this is for real. And everyone's _angry_. 'The District Seven girl killed my cousin's friend, so if I'm chosen, I'll kill District Seven' is a common, slightly adjusted phrase.

Everyone's determined to survive if they're chosen. Win. After all, looking at the money Phoenix Caverly got, they'd have better lives.

Me? I pay attention. I actually notice things. That's kind of why I'm a social outcast: I can't help noticing a guy is cheating by the smell of his hand soap. I can't resist pointing out that the 'effortlessly genius' girl's thick glasses clearly are meant to hide the telltale eye bags that show she studies all night. I don't actually mean to upset people, I'm just...awkward. Antisocial.

Yeah, I'm a regular Sherlock.  
But I've actually payed attention to the triumphant blare of Phoenix Margaret Caverly in the hubbub of her survival. I've watched and rewatched the recordings, and stared at images until my head almost popped. There is nothing left inside her. However her mind was damaged when her brother died, it won't get better. The only thing she ever does is ask for Simon. I don't want to end up like that.

So if I'm chosen, and it's not too big a presumption, considering I shot at least one Capitol soldier in the war, I'll make like the proud rebel I am and do nothing. Hang eternal trauma. I'm not going to have that.

My name is called by a Peacekeeper sent by the President to the town square, and I go calmly to my death.

* * *

The train makes it to the Capitol at nine PM, so the other tributes and I are allowed to spend the night there and rest for the Games tomorrow. I'm fine with that. I get a few more hours of life.

At eleven, when I've been trying to fall asleep for a few hours, I realize it'll never work. How do you sleep when your death is hanging over you? I'm scared. I bet it's going to hurt.

I slip on a soft robe and pad out onto the balcony in slippered feet. When I lean over to look at the ground, I see so many Capitol citizens in their garish clothes, eating and getting drunk and dancing and laughing about the upcoming spectacle. It makes me sick. They don't grasp how kids are going to actually lose their lives. It's just disgusting.

A hand touches me on the shoulder, and my overstrung nerves almost send my district partner toppling over the edge.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Josefina," I say, hoisting her back up. "You startled me."

Obviously she startled me. I use my needless words to take in her appearance, lightning fast. She hasn't eaten, like I haven't. She doesn't expect to have to. So she's using my strategy. She's going to rebel with death.

"Yeah. I guess." Her dark eyes search my face. She's trying to do what I do. She's looking for clues, like a clever girl. I keep my face blank, so she knows I know what she's doing. Clever, clever rebels we are.

"Kodi. I'm not going to survive. Neither are you," she states. We both know this. It's sad to think of how plain this is to us.

"I'm not even going to fight. But I need a friend. When I die, I want someone to hold my hand. I don't want to be alone. I want to be with you."

"I understand. I mean, your query is accepted," I say, mocking my normal attitude. We both smile. Her smile is beautiful and dangerous.

"It's just pointless, isn't it?" she says, mirroring my thoughts. The wind blows her long hair around her face, and I realize why every boy in the district melts for her. She's beautiful. But it takes Sherlock the night before he dies to notice it.

"I know. It's ridiculous. They're giving up twenty three lives for entertainment, for sport, like the Roman gladiators. And they say this is an age of enlightenment."  
"Nobody else actually understands that, have you noticed?" she says. "It's just, that District One Victor killed my District Five friend, so I better kill District One this time. They're playing right into the Capitol's hands. They're doing what they fought against, what all the dead rebels fought to abolish. They're being brainwashed."

Beautiful and so, so intelligent. My Irene Adler. I wish I could have more time with her.

"There's just so much rage, Josefina. Everyone is so angry. And there's no way to stop it. Every year, every Games, everyone will get angrier and angrier until they truly become the Capitol. It'll morph into sport for them. They'll really be Games. They'll like it. They'll want it."

"Not every district," she says. "Not the downtrodden. Not the outer ones, like District Twelve. They fought the hardest to be free, because they had the most to gain. They won't give in like our district and the better off ones. They'll fight harder, because they had more to fight for, and being pressed down makes you able to resist more."

"Have you heard some of the kids in our own class? They're saying they'd win. Some of them are even saying it would be easy. They're saying they want to start practicing so they can fight better for the Games. Not _if_ they go into the Games, _when _they go into the Games, they're saying."

"They're dummies," she says. "It's like they haven't seen how hollow Phoenix Caverly has become. But we'll be Victors anyway. Because we're not doing what the Capitol wants, we're rebelling, we'll be the actual Victors, you know. We win."

I laugh lightly. "How did I not notice this about you before? I saw you as one of the popular, vapid, pretty girls. I didn't think there was anything special about you. Some Sherlock I am."

"Well, I'll be your Irene, Sherlock," she says, and steps closer to me. She drops her voice to a whisper. "You think I'm pretty?"

"That line only works in films. You know you're pretty, and you know I think you're pretty," I reply, rolling my eyes.

"Ah, but I got the film answer anyway, 'You know I think you're pretty.' Would you like to be the stereotypical, brunette, attractive male hero who somehow outwits the villains with his dim, good-guy mind?"

"You think I'm attractive?"

"Ha, ha. I know you're attractive, hero."

We smile, just drinking each other in for a few minutes. She's perfect, as far as I can tell. She's beautiful, extraordinarily intelligent, and a true rebel. Because a true rebel doesn't fight for the Capitol like a trained dog, like our classmates seem to think they should do.

"We've got to try to get some rest," she finally says. "We'll need sleeping pills. There's no way I can fall asleep while thinking about descending into death and nothingness forever."

"We could stay up for a few hours and talk about how pointless death is and how there's nothing after it, if you'd rather do that." Actually, I could talk about that for a whole month. Too bad I don't have a month.

"I would love that. But I don't want to fall asleep on the hovercraft and break my ankle when they drop me. No sense having extra pain besides the actual death."

"Such a lovely ankle it is," I tease.

"Indeed. Now, goodnight, Sherlock," she says, and kisses me on the tip of my nose, the highest part of me she can reach.  
"Goodnight, Irene."

She sweeps back through the balcony doors with a swirl of white fabric and a parting wave.

I touch my nose, and feel the kiss still lingering, like a red-hot sigil of desire.

"Take the chance," says a quiet, broken voice I know too well from Capitol publicity.

I slowly turn to see Phoenix Caverly standing to my left, where she was shrouded in a curtain. I'm surprised I didn't see her hair shining in the moonlight, though it has grown darker since she won. She witnessed the whole thing. Again, I feel the kiss flare up.

"If you think you are going to die tomorrow, what do you want to do?"

"I want to be home and safe with Josefina."

"No. What do you want to do tonight?" Her hollow gray eyes search mine. "If tonight is your last night alive, make it so that you won't regret it. Live like you're going to die, because you will. Live. Live like Simon didn't."

She leaves as soon as she showed herself, and I am left to think about her words.

If tonight is my last night alive, make it unforgettable.

I run back inside and catch Josefina's arm as she turns the door handle of her room. She doesn't start. She knows.

"Josefina, if this is our last night alive, may I kiss you?" I ask, feeling my face burn.

"Too formal," she says. "What do you actually feel?" Her lips part, and her head tilts onto my shoulder.

"If this is our last night alive...I want to be with you."

"Once more," she whispers.  
"This is our last night alive...I don't want to forget it."

She presses close to me, and I inhale a strange, sweet scent of honey and heady floral perfume.

"This is the only thing people think I do- at home, you know," she says. "You show what you actually are. I hide it. You're so much stronger for being able to show who you are."

"But you're strong enough to withstand what people think of you. You've been able to go through people thinking you were like this. You weren't afraid to hide. You're stronger than I am."

"Can't argue with that," she breaths.

Our lips touch, and we're suddenly, frantically kissing, embracing, whispering meaningless things, because we are alive. We are here, together, if only for a few hours. Tomorrow we die.

So why don't we live, since it's our last night alive?

After what feels like eons, we finally separate. We stumble apart, dizzy, fluttering and flapping like dazed butterflies. I'm grinning, unexplainably, indescribably happy. Happy. I haven't been that for a long time.

"Thank you," I say, and mean it sincerely. "I won't forget that."

She smiles, and to say that she's beautiful in this moment would be an understatement. Why, the stars don't glow as she does.

"Neither will I."

Still reeling with sensation, I turn away, and a small, warm hand catches mine.

"Don't go."

"I'm staying right here. I'm just closing the door."

"I want tonight to be forever, Sherlock."

"It is if you let it be, Irene."

I hold her and don't let go for a long, long time.

* * *

They've changed the arena, something I hadn't anticipated.

The first thing I notice when the hovercraft lowered me down was Josefina, seven rocky circles away from me.

The next thing I notice is that the previous grassy field is gone. It's still the same place, I can tell, because of the exact same stone wall and the same size of the area, but they've scourged the ground and sunken it down into a crater. Now it's covered in rocks and boulders. I hope that when I'm beaten to death with one of them, it'll be quick, but who knows.

I eye the tributes flanking me. One is the District Nine girl, Ann-something or other, and the other is the District Eleven boy, Tate Filly or Fillmore. Who said I had a great memory for what flashed on the Capitol screens only once? Anyway, Ann doesn't look like a threat. Tate is big and looks like he could kill every tribute single-handedly.

But I'm more worried about who's flanking Josefina.

The tiny District Eight boy doesn't seem dangerous, but I can't clearly see who's on her other side. I squint, trying to figure it out before the remaining thirty seconds pass. Is it...? No, not Four. Please don't be the District Four girl. No, no, no, not the girl who swore to kill District Two slowly and painfully for killing her boyfriend. She told that to the cameras when she was chosen. And judging by the horrible, hate-filled glare she's giving Josefina, she's going to carry that threat out.

The only person I care about here is going to die. I want it to be quick. I've got to save her.

While my supposedly brilliant mind is racing to think of how to reach her soon enough, the gong sounds, and there is a burst of sound and motion.

I'm racing faster than I ever have before, trying to at least get Josefina out of the way. I can't let her be tortured. I _can't_.

The District Four girl has picked up a huge rock and is advancing on Josefina. In a split second, I realize how I am going to die. I will stop Two and save my brilliant Irene Adler, if only for a minute.

I cross the remaining distance with a fearless leap and land heavily on Four. She stumbles out of her intended path, shakes me off, and to preserve her dignity, pretends she wasn't even aiming for Josefina by lumbering off into the rest of the fray.

"Josefina, run!" I shout. "I got her away, now stay away from her, she'll-"

_Wham._

I feel a sudden pressure on the back of my head, which bears me to the ground. The next moment, the pain catches up, and I scream. I feel like lightning just struck my head.

The culprit?

I turn around and meet heavy-lashed dark eyes.

My beautiful Irene Adler.

"No, but, Josefina, it's me," I gasp. I touch my hair, and my hand comes away wet.

"I know," she says. She raises the blood-stained rock, and because this can't actually be happening and Josefina isn't really attacking me since she would never do that, I can't resist as she brings it down on my leg.

"AAAH! Josefina, please, no!" I'm crawling backwards away from her, leaving a red trail. Pain is shooting through my head and leg. "What did I do? No, no, please don't! Was it something I did? I'm sorry! Josefina, I'm sorry! Please! You said you wouldn't hurt anyone!"

"I lied. I'm good at that. Deception, I mean." Her smile doesn't look beautiful anymore. It's just dangerous. "First you thought I was just a vapid pretty girl. Then you thought I was actually going to be some stupid rebel and give up my life. I don't care about becoming 'hollow' and all that garbage, since if I was going to, my family dying probably would've covered that. I'm gonna win."

You clever, clever girl. You beautiful, brilliant Irene Adler. I was so wrong about you. I trusted you. Well...that was my Reichenbach fall.

With a surge of anger and betrayal and pure adrenaline, I abandon flight and go to fight, crashing up into Josefina and knocking her onto the ground. Her rock flies out of her hand and I catch it, staggering slightly with the weight.

She looks up, and the shock and fear in her huge eyes is almost enough for me to collapse beside her and kiss her until she feels better.

Almost.

I won't be fooled again.

"B-but Kodi, you said you wouldn't hurt anyone...you promised. Please, please, I don't want to die!"

"If I let you get up, you'll just kill me, and my adrenaline won't actually allow me to let that happen right now," I say, and she nods reluctantly, sadly, knowing that I have no choice.

"Make it quick, Sherlock," she whispers.

"For you, Irene," I tell her, and bring the rock down.

For a moment, before it strikes, I see her mouth something. 'I'm sorry.'

Then her head snaps, and so do I.

Not quite in the Phoenix way. I don't grab a grass stalk and strangle every tribute in reach. No, my resolve snaps. My rebel resolve. I just killed. I actually just ended a life, the life of a girl I cared about, after saying I would never do that, because it would be playing into the Capitol's hands, and I thought was too smart for that.

Oh, the irony.

I stand up, putting pressure on my non-wounded leg, and wait to see what insanity feels like. Nothing much happens. I'm a bit dizzy and nauseous. Tears are streaming down my face. My head is pounding.

Also, I'm ready to kill as many people as it takes to get out of this hellhole.

But it's just so pointless. She's dead. Her death was completely meaningless. What is the point of it? What is the point of taking a life? I still have enough clarity to feel how incredibly, indescribably empty death is. There's no guiding light to lead her to safety. No choir of winged beings waiting for her. There's just nothing left. And that can't happen to me. I know now I will do _anything_ to not let that happen. I just _can't_ be _gone._

I slide her eyes closed, and survey the arena blankly. I will do literally anything to get out of here. I'll kill for it, no matter how pointless it is, no matter how much I'm doing what the Capitol wants and what I fought against.

There are only three others left. District Eleven Tate, some outer district girl, and the tiny District Eight boy. He shouldn't die. He's twelve. But I can't die. I've got to live for myself and for Josefina.

Showing no emotion, I walk up to Tate, who's cornered the outer district girl, and I bring the rock down on his head, once, twice. He collapses, and a locket falls out of his shirt. It's shaped like a heart, probably given to him by a girlfriend, who must be screaming right now, screaming because the curly-haired boy came so far but couldn't return to her. I don't care. I just can't.

I slide his eyes closed, giving him the only respect I can.

The girl beams, filled with relief, and her tear-filled eyes show such gratitude I feel physical pain for what I'm about to do.

"Thank you! Oh, thank you, thank you, he was about to kill me! You just saved my life," she gasps.

Without a word, I crush her head into the ground with my boot. I hear a snap, and she dies immediately, no pain. No idea what happened. She has a family, maybe people she had to take care of, and I just caused even more deaths. Who know how many lives of relatives and friends I've already ruined? I can't think about it. I can't. I've got to get out.

I try to close her destroyed eyes, but I can't, and they stare accusingly at me.

There is one single, solitary person left I trudge toward. He's shivering in a little corner, trying to hide, but his brilliant red hair gives him away.

I wonder how many people adore his red hair? I wonder how many people are going to cry when he dies?

No. I have to stop. I can't think about that. Can't.

The fragile boy looks up at me with wide eyes, so like Josefina. Hers dark, his electric blue. I feel a jolt of pain, and try to block _her_ from my mind.

"P-please don't kill me," the little boy whimpers. "I don't wanna die. Please don't hurt me. Please."

No, can't think about Josefina, can't think about her crumpled body among the rocks. Can't think of her.

"Please don't hurt me," say the boy and an echoing memory of _her_. "I don't want to die."

"I'm sorry," I find myself saying, and feel another wave of nausea. I can't just feel sorry for this one boy. Tate and the other girl needed that too. They were people, like me, like Josefina, who are now gone.

But this tiny boy is so vulnerable, so needing of protection, I feel like I'm being torn in two.

"P-please don't kill me. I want to go home. I w-want to see my Mum and Dad. Please, please let me go home! I wanna go home!"

"I am so, so sorry. I'm sorry. I don't want to do this, I don't, I'm sorry," I say through a haze of pain and tears. "I'm sorry."

With just one movement, his head is crushed, and the red hair is scattered among rocks. His paper-white skin is splashed red.

After I close his eyes, a ladder from the sky descends for me.

Kodiak Tremaine stays behind, and a new person climbs up into the unknown.

* * *

She comes to me again, like the night before the Games, stepping slowly out from behind the curtain again on the balcony. Her hair shines, and her simple white dress fits better than any other Capitol thing she could wear.

"So." She raises an eyebrow. "Victor."

I nod. "You and me both."

"I wasn't sure you had it in you. Are you hollow now, like me?" Her words are laced with mockery.

"I think I am. But I just couldn't die. I didn't want to be gone."

"It'll get better. What you're feeling. I mean, the arena is a pit of insanity, but you're right, at least you're not gone." She takes me in: my neatly combed hair, my leg, healed of its wound. "You look fine."

"So do you."

"At least you lived."

I sigh. "I know. You said that. And I'm beginning to think I shouldn't have."

"No, I mean that night...remember what I said? You thought it was your last night alive, so you made it unforgettable, didn't you? Didn't I make it unforgettable?"

"I suppose so."

She smiles, and I look up at the stars, where some people say _she_ must be. Maybe she is. That night, she was more beautiful than any star out there.

"We're the true Victors, Sherlock."

"You and me both, Irene."

Maybe she's out in the stars somewhere too, but Josefina being with me forever is better than anything else I could ever think of.


End file.
